


Having a bit of a Domestic?

by Sketch_A_Bow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: And Of Course - Freeform, Crowley is a Little Shit, Domestic dinner parties, M/M, Multi, Mycroft the archangel, and his trusty hellhound Pestle, and the mobster demon, everyone's favorite hunter crew, featuring the King of Hell, his fallen angel boyfriend Sherlock, introducing John 'Mortar' Watson, putting pigs in coats and pig in pie, who is dating the king of hell but shhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:34:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sketch_A_Bow/pseuds/Sketch_A_Bow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just wants to be able to torture in his basement and then come upstairs for a nice dinner with his friends. But Crowley has to mess with everyone, and having supernatural boyfriends add some... complications to average life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Having a bit of a Domestic?

     The scratching and alien sounds coming from the upstairs were rather alarming both in volume and nature. It was the sort of thing that caused people to gasp in fear and flee the house, calling for the Priest and Ghostfacers.

 

     Sherlock found it extremely annoying. “JOOOOHN!” He yelled into the front room without looking away from his squid dissection, “PLEASE do something with that annoying abomination you call a dog before I drown it in Holy Oil!”

 

     Several hours and a total of 4 squid-based experiments later, Sherlock vaguely noted the sound of John tromping up the stairs. As soon as the door shut, he called, “Did you do anything about that damned dog?” Hearing nothing but random shuffling about, Sherlock finally huffed out a breath and looked up. John was standing in the doorway, still in his work clothes.

 

     “John,” Sherlock chided, “Didn’t we decide to keep the gore limited to the kitchen and laundry?” John looked down at his blood soaked apron, which was dripping on the floor. “Sorry.” He shrugged, smirking as he glanced back up at Sherlock, his eyes flashing black. “I’ll clean it up, and the mess you’ve made of those bloody squid while I’m at it I suppose.” “It’s for science!” he replied, already lost back in his careful application of squid ink via tattoo to act as a slow killing poison.  John grumbled fondly and removed his apron, throwing it onto its peg, then went about scraping the various squid remains into a bucket and scorching the counters clean. He took the bucket upstairs and plopped it down in his room, grinning as his hellhound growled fiercely and devoured the entire bucket. “There’s my good Pestle,” he crooned, “Daddy’s best helper.”

 

 

     John finally took a break on torturing the demon in the basement to go upstairs when the furious ranting refused to cease for a solid half hour. Tromping up the stairs, he opened the door to chaos. Sherlock was storming through the flat, gesticulating wildly to the air and pointing furiously at nothing, while Crowley leaned against the wall looking extremely amused. John sighed. “Crowley?” He asked, pleading with his eyes.  The Scotsman just broke into a full grin, and gestured into the opposite corner. There, growling fiercely was Pestle, happily shredding what looked to be half a pig and… some sort of dark fabric. “What, did he eat someone important? Not another witness I hope…” John had the decency to sound mildly worried.

 

      “NO!” Sherlock almost screamed. “You’re… disgusting excuse for a _pet_ has done something far worse!”

 

      “Well, what is it then?” John wrinkled his nose, trying to decide what could possibly have Sherlock so upset. Maybe Pestle had mucked up one of his more intricate experiments? But that didn’t explain the corpse… Well, actually it did, better than anything else, considering the nature of Sherlock’s experiments. But he wasn’t about to ask, because any further communication would just serve to push Sherlock over the edge. So he settled back against the wall next to Crowley, punching him solidly when the other demon began to chuckle.

 

 

     Finally Sherlock began to calm down, holding his hands up in the classic gesture that meant he was deep into his mind palace. He finally opened his eyes, looking eerily calm. John knew that look well. It was the one that made him nervous. Because even John ‘Mortar’ Watson, The most feared demon in Hell since the fall of Alistair, had something to watch out for when it came to the wrath of Sherlock Holmes. Not because of Sherlock himself – He would never actually hurt John – but mostly because of his brother. Mycroft wasn’t just an angel, he was _the_ Angel, the most powerful Archangel in Heaven. And John’s reality of being a demon that lived with an angel (albeit a fallen one) was difficult enough without that added curveball. If Mycroft caught wind of anything that displeased or endangered his little brother, he would joyfully take the opportunity to release his full mojo upon the decided aggressor. The last time it had happened John spent most of the Elizabethan Period finding a way back out of Hell. And he was rather fond of the meatsuit he now possessed, so he wasn’t keen to take any chances.

 

     Pestle’s vicious snarling drew John out of his distasteful reverie. Sherlock had moved towards the beast, and was now pointing down at the hellhound with the conviction of the God he almost was. “This… _Creature_ ,” he spat, not breaking eye contact with John, “has eaten Elizabetta.” Sherlock let the end of the sentence drop into the silence, looking as if he had just uncovered the treason of a monarch. “Excuse me?” John asked. Crowley actually burst into full on chuckles, leaning against the wall for support as Sherlock glared him down. Who the Hell was Elizabetta? Had his asexual angel flatmate finally managed to find someone? He knew it was becoming more common among the angels, Castiel and Gabriel case in point. Even Mycroft, though that was top secret deadly information, made even more so by the fact of who his significant other was… John quickly slammed down that train of thought, peeking at the demon next to him. Crowley just narrowed his eyes and gave John a Burning glare.

 

     John decided he had had enough of angry glaring in his house for today. “Okay, listen up. I still have Serena waiting down in the basement and I ideally should be killing her by now, and this is really rather tiring. Just explain what happened, what you want me to do about it, and why the Hell Crowley is even here!” Sherlock huffed, giving him his best reproachful pout. He seriously needed to keep him away from Sam before he picked up any more tips. “Elizabetta,” Sherlock began, and John was shocked to hear his voice break,” is…was, my coat.”

 

     He thought he must have finally lost it. He knew he had heard him right, he had perfect demonic hearing. But seriously? He took a moment, breathed, thought about it logically. Well what the fuck, it was _Sherlock_. It made sense about as much as anything else the odd angel did. “Okay,” John began, “Okay. So… Pestle ate your coat. Ate Elizabetta. How did this happen? And why is there an apparent chunk of some sort of meat wrapped up in all this?” When Crowley grinned John knew this wasn’t going to be a pretty story. He turned his back on his indignant flatmate and retreated to the kitchen to make tea.

 

 

 

     “I knew I came around here for some reason,” Crowley muttered as he followed John into the room. “So hard to find decent British demons to have a cuppa with.” He lapsed into silence as John filled the kettle, but he knew what was coming. “So how did you…”

 

     “How did I know?” John smirked at Crowley’s frown. “Because I am who I am. It’s my job to Know. Plus, I’m in the unique position to be in the regular company of both you and Mycroft on a regular basis. It’s not hard to put two and two together when both of your auras began to change at the same time. And I can sense both of you in the other. But don’t worry your malevolent head, I’m not about to blab. Specially not with your wrathful boy toy to reckon with.”

 

     Neither of them commented on the gratitude that was conveyed by Crowley’s lack of a biting retort. John finished making the tea and carried everything out to the table (the nice one that Sherlock wasn’t allowed to experiment on) while Crowley purposely settled in Sherlock’s chair. Looking over at Sherlock’s steely calm gaze John knew he was reaching his shut down point. With a grumble he spritzed Crowley with the spray bottle of holy water, causing him to let out an undignified yelp and flee. Mood significantly improved, Sherlock flounced over to his now unoccupied chair and collapsed into it. Smiling despite himself, John made everyone a cup.

 

     Settling down into his own chair, john began to feel a modicum of normalcy return to his day. Or at least what passed for normal there. He looked on as Crowley poured some of his special Scottish brew into his coffee, smiling as he remembered that Sherlock called it Polyjuice potion behind Crowley’s back.

 

      “In reality, Crowley is really a 14 year old emo girl who’s struggling with her absolutely horrendous appearance, has no friends, and is in love with the insufferable chess club star.” John had giggled at that declaration, knowing the last jab was aimed at Mycroft. And no need to let Crowley know that Sherlock knew too, though he didn’t see how he could not know, being the genius he was. And surely Crowley knew that he knew, though he wasn’t saying anything. Too much knowing and not knowing in this eclectic group, that was the problem. John sighed into his coffee, glancing up to see that both of his other guests were staring at him.

 

     Snarkily, Sherlock commented, “Have a mental break, did we? What did you discover, that the answer to life lies in the migration patterns of lemmings?”

 

     “Oh sod off, you bloody wanker,” John muttered, grumbling into his cup. Sherlock beamed at the insult, his mood improving with the attacks upon every party in the room. He turned to Crowley next. “So, how’s life being the king of Hell? Or should I say Queen?” Crowley just glared over the rim of his mug, a muscle in his check twitching. John was just musing over whether to intervene or wait and see who could tear up more of the furniture, when someone knocked on the door. And continued to knock, very loudly and insistently, until John cracked it open.

 

 

     “Hello John.” Castiel said with his usual stoic intensity. Shoving him affectionately out of the way, Dean moved past him and through the door, carrying what John highly suspected was a fresh baked pie. Leaving the door open for the others, John followed the hunter into the kitchen. He walked through the door just in time to hear Crowley ribbing him on.

 

     “Domesticity seems to be suiting you rather well, squirrel. Making pies, having dinner parties.”

 

     “And he’s gained half a stone!” Sherlock shouted from the next room.

 

     Growling, Dean glowered at the demon until his angel boyfriend came in and calmed him down.

 

     “Hey! Party’s here, didya miss me?” Gabriel burst into the room, swinging along a twelve pack of beer in one hand, and dragging a very unenthusiastic looking Sam in the other. John ushered them in, walking back into the room behind them as Gabe  started up a proper ruckus in the kitchen. Catching sight of another of Sherlock’s patent kicked puppy looks (He really needed to keep him away from Sam) John stared him down until the moody genius settled deeper into his chair with a scowl. Shaking his head in fond defeat, John decided it would be prudent to put Pestle up before any more accidents occurred. Also because he made both Dean and Castiel very uncomfortable, for obvious reasons. It took a solid ten minutes to convince the Hellhound to leave his treat, but John finally removed the hulking beast up to his lair. By the time he returned, Sherlock had already disappeared with his precious Elizabetta, and the rest of the scattered pig mess had been removed.

 

     Searching out Crowley’s gaze, John thanked him. He got a prudent nod and a smirk in return. Feeling suddenly less grateful, he only had to wait a moment for the girlish scream to emit from the kitchen.

 

     “My pie!”

 

     John buried his face in his palm. “Really, did you have to?”

 

     The demon only shrugged, looking not at all sorry, before disappearing right before Dean burst in from the kitchen. “Where is that son of a bitch? I’m gonna gank him for sure this time. He put - something in my damn pie! I had just baked it this afternoon, it was cherry, my favorite…” He trailed off, looking crestfallen. Castiel trailed in from the kitchen, laying a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. Before John could blink, they had disappeared also.

 

     Gabe, leaning against the doorjamb, rolled his eyes and answered John’s silent question. “He’s taken him off to Pie-Land in Quebec. It’s where they go any time Dean is feeling especially sad. Or Venice for pizza.”

 

     John must have looked askance, and Gabriel just laughed. “How do you think he gained so much weight?

 

     “I suppose it makes sense…” John trailed off, giving Sherlock a sidelong glance.

 

     The fallen detective rose gracefully from his chair. “Don’t even consider it, John. You may ‘zap’ me to anyplace you please, but it will not make me any more likely to eat. I have my own ability to do so, if you had forgotten, and more than enough time to explore every cuisine humans have invented. It doesn’t work.”

 

     John just harrumphed, turning away and heading back to the kitchen. “I’ll just ask Mycroft and see what he has to say about it,” he muttered under his breath. An unholy screech rang out from behind him, and John smirked.

 

 

     Feeling rather pleased with the day, John fixed a robust pot roast, and they managed to have a somewhat civil dinner. Dean and Castiel even managed to show up in time for dessert, with several pies fresh from Quebec. As they sat around after dinner playing a dangerous game of Cluedo, John mused on how strange his life was. Even for a demon, he seemed to have an intense attraction for the bizarre and dangerous. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, fallen angels made for fantastic shag. Not that anyone else needed to know that. Sherlock glanced up from where he was apparently trying to scorch a hole through the game-board, and gave him a wicked smile.

 

~~Finis~~

 


End file.
